


The Coffee Break

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista!Doctor, F/M, Glasgow, UNIT, he's quite rude, she smells of soap, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Smith is a barista in Glasgow and Clara Oswald is a regular customer.</p><p>Or are they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coffee Break

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is a thing now: http://anglotopia.wpengine.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/tardis-cafe.jpg
> 
> Many thanks to kbk for help planning this story (all the sucky bits are mine).

“Can I have -”

John didn't bother looking up from his book. “Shush, I'm at a good bit.” 

“I just want -”

“Shh!”

“I'm in a hurry,” said the English accent, rather apologetically.

John sighed and put his book down on the counter. The accent belonged to a dark-haired woman with massive eyes. “What do you want?” he asked, as gruffly as possible. 

She smiled at him anyway. “A cappuccino, please.”

John nodded and started making up her order. The woman tilted her head to look at the cover of the book he'd been reading. “That looks interesting,” she said, apparently attempting to engage him in small talk while he made her coffee.

“It's not,” he said, hoping to stop the conversation before it started.

“You said you were at a good bit,” she countered.

“A good bit in an otherwise dull novel,” he lied.

“So why are you reading it?”

“Because I've read all the good ones already.”

“What, you've read every good book ever written? All of them?”

“Yes.” He wished the coffee machine would hurry up.

“Have you read _Twilight_?” she asked. 

“No.” Finally – finally! - the machine spat out her coffee. John wrapped the cup in a complimentary napkin and handed it to her.

“Good, neither have I.” She smiled at him again and paid for her coffee. “See you later.”

“I hope not,” muttered John under his breath as she walked away. He picked the book up again, sighed, and then put it under the counter. She'd spoiled the moment. Really, how was he supposed to get any reading done when people kept wanting to buy coffee? He'd only taken the job because he'd assumed it would mostly consist of sitting and reading with only occasional interruptions from customers. 

He rubbed his hands together for warmth and looked up the street. It was full of people. People who might potentially want to buy coffee. John prided himself on having very few _repeat_ customers, but being so close to the train and bus stations there was a seemingly endless supply of new people who didn't know what the coffee was going to be like.

Two old men stopped in front of the coffee booth. “Didn't this used to belong to the museum?” asked one of them.

“It sells coffee now,” said John, who had this conversation at least once a week and had long ago become tired of it. “Yes, that's perfectly legal. No, there isn't someone you can complain to.”

“That's terrible,” said the taller old man. “This was a piece of history. I remember when there were police boxes everywhere. This was one of the last, you know.”

“It sells coffee now,” John repeated.

The old men shook their heads at this disgrace, muttered a bit, and then headed off down the street. 

John checked his watch. He only had an hour to go and then he could shut the place up and go home. If only he had a time machine. 

 

“Cappuccino, please.”

Big-Eyes was back and today she seemed even more jolly. John shrugged and switched the water-boiler on. 

“Do you have any biscuits?” she asked, peering into the box that housed the coffee shop. 

“Tunnock's Teacakes, Tunnock's Snowballs, Tunnock's Caramel Wafers, which would you like?”

“Wow, that's a lot of Tunnock's,” said Big-Eyes. “Do you have anything less... Scottish?”

“It's a coffee shop, not a biscuit emporium.”

“Okay, I'll have a Caramel Wafer, please.”

John handed one over with as little enthusiasm as he could manage. 

“What are you reading today?” she asked, shoving the confection into a pocket.

“ _Catch-22: The Book of the Film_ ”

“Wasn't that already a book?” she asked, eyes somehow widening even beyond their usual size.

“Are you a librarian?” he asked. “Do you perhaps work in a bookshop?” John realised that she had somehow managed to get him into something akin to a conversation. He handed her coffee to her. 

She paid and shook her head. “No, I work in Lush.”

“What's that?” He asked. He noticed, even though he didn't care, that she smelled of expensive handmade soap.

She turned and pointed to a shop further down the street. “It's a shop. It sells expensive handmade soap.”

“Ah.” Well, that explained the smell. 

“Right, time for me to go and find the rest of my lunch.”

“Okay,” said John, not wanting to commit to any particular emotion.

 

After another long, long day at work, John shut up the shop and headed to the Underground station to catch the train home to his flat in Govan. He always took the Outer Circle, which ran clockwise, not for any weird reason, just because time went forwards and not backwards, and he didn't want to start getting confused about that. Changing the clocks twice a year was confusing enough, and for some reason that always gave him a headache. 

He bought a newspaper and a small bottle of Irn Bru, and tried to put work to the back of his mind.

 

“Cappuccino,” he said when Big-Eyes appeared in front of him. 

She smiled. “You remembered!”

“I don't get many repeat customers,” he said. He looked at her carefully. “Have you actually tasted it?”

“Of course I have.”

“And?” 

“And it's nice?” she ventured. 

“Oh. Maybe I should change the recipe.”

“Don't, please, I like it as it is.” 

That was practically a challenge. She was taunting him with her cappuccino-liking ways. Maybe there was something wrong with it, maybe it actually tasted fine. People might start coming back for more, and then where would he be? He really ought to change the recipe. 

“Okay,” he said, against his own better judgement.

“I'm Clara, by the way,” she said. 

“I'm... John,” he said, awkwardly. He wasn't used to people taking an interest in him as a person rather than him as a supply of caffeine.

“Nice to meet you, John.” She smiled again. She had quite a pretty smile, actually, as far as he was one to judge. Probably had boys or girls or both swooning over her all the time. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, and John made a special effort not to care about that.

He returned to the book he was currently reading. It was romantic novel about cowboys. It wasn't bad, especially since he was skipping any pages that looked boring and therefore he was getting an edited, probably superior, version of the story.

“A black coffee, please.”

John put his book to one side to deal with the customer. She was dressed like Mary Poppins and her dark hair was up in a bun. “Do you want sugar?” he asked.

“No, I like it dark and bitter.”

“Like your heart.” He shook his head, that was going a bit far. “Sorry, I don't know why I said that.”

But she was smiling. “Don't you?”

An unexplained chill ran down his spine. He wanted to get far away from this woman, and he didn't even know why. When he handed her the coffee and took her money, she seemed to be sizing him up for something. And then, with a wink and a laugh, she was gone. He realised that he'd been holding his breath.

 

The next day Mary Poppins was all but forgotten and John was trying not to look forward to seeing Clara at lunch time. He read about half of a fairly decent novel, served a large number of boring customers, and invented a new kind of espresso by accident.

“Do you get a lunch break?” asked Clara when she finally appeared.

“I bring a packed lunch. Why?”

Clara seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then she said “I can't believe I'm about to say this, but do you want to go for a coffee?”

“I hate coffee,” said John quite truthfully.

“Tea?”

He thought it over. “I wouldn't mind a cup of tea.”

“When can we go?”

“Um.” He looked at his watch. “Do you promise me that you're not a murderer trying to lure me somewhere to kill me?”

“I promise.”

“We could go... well, now, I suppose. It's not like anyone really cares whether or not I'm here to sell them coffee. There's a Starbucks just up the street, it's more expensive but much nicer.”

“Shall we go there?” she suggested. 

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I can't imagine that you'd try to murder me there.”

 

 

“So why do you sell coffee from an old police phone box?” she asked. They were sitting across from each other and so far John was managing quite well with the polite chit-chat.

“Why do you sell expensive handmade soap?” He shrugged. “It's a job, it pays the bills.”

“But you don't even like coffee?”

“I can't stand it,” he said.

“So why did you apply for the job?”

“Do you always ask so many questions? Does it not annoy your friends?” 

“I don't have that many friends,” she said, looking suddenly small. “I just moved up here a few months ago.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, I'll be your friend, if you want. I'm not much in the way of good company, but I can get you free Caramel Wafers.”

She laughed at that. “It's weird, I know nothing about you but at the same time I feel like I've known you for years.”

“Well, no wonder, I'm such a friendly and approachable person.”

“You are, actually.” She reached to touch his hand and he pulled it away from her as if she might burn him. “Sorry, I was just -”

“No, it's...” He decided that he might as well ask. “Is this a date?”

“Do you want it to be a date?” she asked.

“I don't do dates,” he said. 

“That's a shame.” 

He looked at her carefully, noting how oddly disappointed she looked at his reply. She was young and pretty and she could certainly do better than him. “It can be a date if you want,” he said, cautiously.

Clara smiled. “Then yes, it's a date.”

“Okay.” Well, that made everything much more awkward and terrifying. He was almost certain to upset her somehow, possibly by accidentally insulting her. It was just so hard not to be automatically rude to people.

But somehow he managed it. They talked until their tea went cold, and then she kissed him on the cheek before heading back to her expensive soap. 

 

He was feeling quite upbeat the next day, and a lot more positive about selling coffee to people. He even tried being helpful and polite, but that only lasted about ten minutes before he realised that he didn't really want to be those things. 

For lunch they ate sandwiches on a park bench in George Square, throwing crusts to the pigeons even though they weren't supposed to. 

“Can I hold your hand?” asked Clara.

John looked sideways at her. “Do adults do that?”

“Sometimes, yes. When they don't care what other people think of them.”

“If you want to,” he said, offering his hand to her.

She took it and laced her fingers between his. She had nice, soft skin and she felt pleasantly warm. Maybe touching people wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

“That's quite nice,” he admitted.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

 _Please_ , he thought, but he said “If you must.” Somehow he felt that he wasn't allowed to be eager.

Clara leaned in closer across the bench and, very gently, pressed her lips against his. Then she kissed him more firmly, and he had to kiss her back because, well, it wasn't polite not to.

She still smelled of expensive handmade soap, but the aroma was growing on him.

 

John was in his final hour of the work day and the final chapter of his book when everything started going wrong.

“Hello, Doctor,” said a blonde with an English accent.

“Hello?” said John.

“We have a situation,” she said. 

John blinked, nonplussed. “What sort of situation?”

She glanced around. “It's not the sort of thing I can discuss in public.”

“...okay. What kind of coffee do you want?” 

“Stop playing games, Doctor, we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“Do I know you?” he asked. 

“Don't you remember?” The woman looked suddenly worried about something. 

John shook his head. “I have no idea who you are.”

She pulled a walkie-talkie from her coat pocket and spoke into it quickly. “Trap One, this is Greyhound, we're going to have to do an extraction. Possible loss of memory. Again.”

Obviously this woman was insane. 

“Stay calm,” she told him. “I need you to come with me.”

“What are you even talking about?” he asked. Then he noticed soldiers coming towards him out of the crowd. He jumped out of the phone box and looked around in a panic.

“Don't try to run, it'll only make things more difficult for everyone,” said the blonde. 

Then someone stuck something into his neck and he lost consciousness.

 

It was like one of those interrogation scenes in a film. John sat at a table in a small room, and the blonde - Kate Stewart, apparently - sat opposite him. A few men with guns stood against the walls. On the table sat a thick folder from which Kate took a number of photographs.

“This is you,” she said, placing a photograph in front of him. “This is also you. And this, and this.”

“I don't look like any of those people. Maybe that one, a bit,” he admitted, pointing, “but I don't look like _him_ and I certainly would never wear _that_.”

“You don't recognise these faces?”

“No. I've already told you, I'm not a doctor and I don't know who any of you are. Can I go home now? Please?”

“I know this must be difficult, but you need to stay here so that we can help you.”

“I don't need any help,” he protested.

“Let's try something else,” said Kate. She produced another photograph from her folder. “I think you'll agree that this is you.”

Somehow, it was a photograph of him and Clara, taken somewhere he couldn't recognise and where he had certainly never been with Clara. They were laughing, and he seemed to be pointing at something outside of the photograph.

“Do you know who that girl is?” asked Kate.

“No,” he lied, automatically. It couldn't be _his_ Clara, but he wasn't going to betray her to these people anyway. Maybe they'd arrest her too, lock her in a room like this one and tell her she was someone she'd never even heard of.

“Are you sure?” 

“I'm more interested in who he is,” said John, trying to move the conversation away from Clara. “That can't be me, but I agree that he looks like me. Is that who you're looking for?”

There was a knock on the door and a man entered wearing glasses and a white coat.

“Sorry, I'm late,” he said, “my train got stuck at Carlisle.” He looked at John. “Hello, Doctor.”

“I'm not a doctor,” said John for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

“So I hear,” said the man. “I'm Malcolm. I helped you out once, but I expect you don't remember that either.

“Malcolm's the one who tracked you down,” said Kate. 

“I found you on Google Street View,” said Malcolm. “I like to watch the blue boxes, you see. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” asked John, curious in spite of the situation he was in.

“Well,” said Malcolm, “in case it's you. Everyone does it, even if nobody admits it.”

“Malcolm's your new best friend,” said Kate. “He's going to try and figure out what's happened to you.”

There didn't seem to be much point in saying that the only thing that had happened to him was that he'd been kidnapped by some secret organisation with guns.

 

Malcolm at least got him a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich, which was better than nothing.

“I have a few ideas,” said Malcolm, “but about half of those depend on us finding your TARDIS, and we're not having much luck with that at the moment. That's the blue box,” he continued, “like the one you sell coffee from. I think someone put you there as a joke.”

“Ha ha ha,” said John without humour.

“You know, when I'm having a problem, I always ask myself 'WWTDD, Malcolm? – What Would The Doctor Do?' I find it helps me to focus on a solution. Would you like to try it?” 

“I don't know what your doctor would do.”

“Who are you, John? Where were you born?”

“Gallifrey,” said John without thinking. 

“Good! And do you know where that is?”

“It's... you get a number 36 bus through Paisley, and... I haven't been there for years, I can't quite remember right now, but I do know where it is. I could probably show you on a map.”

“What were your parents called?”

“Mum and Dad.”

“Have you ever had a pet?”

“I used to have a dog. It was... I really liked him, but then... I think an ex-girlfriend stole him from me.” 

“What was his name? Do you know what sort of dog he was?”

“His name was... Jack? Maybe? He was grey, and he had... eyes.”

“Why don't you know?” asked Malcolm. 

“It was a long time ago,” John protested. “So my memory isn't perfect, what's that supposed to prove?”

“You're a construct, John. Someone made you to hide the Doctor, probably to keep him out of the way for a while.”

John sat back in his chair. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”

Malcolm nodded. “Probably about as insane as if I told you that the Doctor is an alien who travels through time and space, and that you're definitely him. Look,” he said, “I didn't want to have to do this, but...” He pulled a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat and handed it to John. “Listen to your heart. Left side of your chest.” 

John put the stethoscope on and did as he was told. He heard the steady beating of his heart. “So?”

“Now try the right side of your chest. What do you hear?”

“My heart, again.”

“Now listen to my heart,” said Malcolm, taking the chest-piece and holding it against himself. “Now yours again.”

John listened. “What's that echo?”

“That,” said Malcolm taking the stethoscope back, “is the sound of a bicardial system. You have two hearts.”

John stared at him. “No, I don't have... no! Nobody has two hearts!”

“You do,” said Malcolm gently. “Because you're not really human, you just think you are. You really are the Doctor, but for some reason you've forgotten that.”

“So, wait, what's supposed to happen to me when you get this Doctor back? Do I just... cease to exist? Do I die?”

Malcolm took a while to answer that. “I suppose so. I hadn't really thought about it like that.” 

“Well, maybe you should have!”

The door opened and Kate stepped in. “We found his TARDIS, I'm having it brought here now. Any joy?”

“I think we might be getting somewhere,” said Malcolm. “It's just... he has a whole life in there, Ma'am. It doesn't seem right to just snuff it out.”

“I'm sorry, Malcolm, but sometimes we can't afford to care. We need the Doctor.” 

“She doesn't seem very nice,” said John when she left the room again.

“She's under a lot of pressure at the moment,” said Malcolm. “There are robot dinosaurs in London.”

John blinked. “Pardon?”

“Robot dinosaurs. You won't have seen it on the news, there's a D-Notice.”

“And the Doctor, does he deal with that sort of thing?”

“Usually. I think you'll remember who you are when we get you into the TARDIS. That's your.. spaceship. It seems to have some telepathic abilities, it might be able to help you.”

“And then I'm gone?”

“Don't think of it as dying,” said Malcolm. 

John thought for a moment. “This Doctor of yours, how does he feel about Clara?”

“I don't know,” said Malcolm. “Why?”

“Does he love her? Will he take care of her?”

“I'm sure he'll look after her.” Malcolm seemed a bit vague on the matter and John didn't want to press him. “You said you didn't know who she was,” said Malcolm. “Have you been lying to protect her?”

“Don't think of it as lying,” said John. 

 

 

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and looked at the assembled UNIT personnel. “It's me,” he said, “I'm back.”

“Thank God,” said Kate. “Things are getting worse in London, we've lost contact with HQ.”

“Clara's working in a soap shop on Buchanan Street, can someone go and fetch her for me? She doesn't know who she is, try not to upset her too much.”

“Done,” said Kate, signalling for someone to deal with it. “Anything else?”

“That'll do for now.” He waved Malcolm over as Kate moved away to talk to someone else.

“Doctor,” said Malcolm, “it's so good to see you again.”

They shook hands. “It's good to be back.” He glanced around to check nobody was listening. “I may have said some things about Clara...”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Malcolm. “You didn't say anything about Clara.”

The Doctor looked at him for a moment and then nodded. “Thank you.”

 

 

“Clara! Wake up!” said the Doctor, and he snapped his fingers.

“Doctor?” Clara looked around. “Was I really working in a soap shop?”

“Yes. You were hypnotised.” He looked at her carefully. “I expect you don't remember all of it.”

“No, I...”

“Never mind, I'm sure it wasn't important. So, Missy's not dead and she has an army of robot dinosaurs, and there's one of those conspicuous black helicopters taking us to London in about ten minutes. Any questions?”

“Are you just going to pretend nothing happened?” she demanded.

“Nothing did happen,” said the Doctor easily.

“Nothing,” she repeated. She seemed simultaneously sad and annoyed.

“It wasn't nothing,” he admitted, “but it wasn't us. Anyway,” he continued before she could reply, “we have things to do, people to save. Let's not dwell on lives not lived.”

Clara held out her hand and he took it. She laced her fingers with his. She had nice, soft skin and she felt pleasantly warm.

“Seriously robot dinosaurs?” she asked.

“Seriously.”

“We'd better get a move on, then,” said Clara, and together they set off for adventure.


End file.
